I write poems to people
I barely know
because I don’t know how
to talk to you.
They go like this:
I cannot taste God
so we simulate the creation of the entire universe
in our bed sheets:
there was the death of physics
and then
there was the death
of me.
Sometimes I try to write letters to you
and all they ever say is:
“I lost myself”
and
“It’s been months now
but I still can’t be found”
Now tell me what to do
with my mouth.
I don’t know when
I became terrified of you.
I had nightmares
of being ripped apart by wild animals
of their teeth on my hands
of their fur wrapped around my spine of their
impending doom
and fuck,
if it wasn’t just all
you.
I feel warm thinking about
how angry you would be
if you could see me now,
my agency,
if you knew about all the poems
I write to other people
that go:
Come kiss me again
in the middle of my mother’s street,
show me what you know how to do
with your hands and
I will show you what I know how to do
with my teeth.